When We Fall
by roses in bloom
Summary: Percy Weasley has never been one for intrigue or adventure. He is then most definitely not pleased when his superior is murdered and it's left up to him to stop a madman's scheme from destroying mankind. Slash.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own the fantastically complex world of Harry Potter. Sadly, I probably never will.

Be warned, readers! This story (especially this first chapter) is rather disturbing in parts, and is not for light hearted. Hopefully you understood that from the summary, but I just wanted to make sure you all knew what you were getting into... Enjoy!

* * *

Cornelius Fudge shuddered with pleasure and barely concealed lust as the slap of flesh on flesh and the consequent sound of bone cracking echoed throughout the room. This one had put up a fight- not for long, of course. No one did for long.

Dark hair fell in tangled waves, framing a bruised and beaten face. The discoloration and the blood slowly trickling out of the agape mouth did nothing to distract from the fragile beauty of the figure however. If anything, they amplified it- showcasing the delicate lines and gentle slopes of the attractive face.

The prisoner's jaw was broken by this point- all that came out of those precious lips was a steady stream of blood and the garbled pleading of one who is truly desperate.

The enrobed figure closest to Fudge took a step forward, flipping his sleeve out of the way and revealing a glinting dagger to the little light in the room. Fudge licked his lips in anticipation.

"I think that's enough, don't you 'gents? After all- that pretty little mouth won't be sayin' much else, an' I want to have some fun 'for we have to finish up…"

Wicked grins were the response, and Fudge allowed himself one as well, though he covered it quickly behind his fist as he did have a certain dignity to keep about him at all times.

The girl on the ground whimpered, scuttling away as fast as her twisted legs would allow. The man who had spoken clucked disparagingly at her efforts. "Now, now- that won't do at all."

A scream broke the air eerily- Fudge barely restrained himself from wincing deeply. Blood stained the ground, and the dagger, no longer clean, imbedded itself deeply in the cold cement.

The woman collapsed, though not quite dead. She would be able to feel them take their pleasure in her suffering and broken body. She would be able to attempt at writhing away from their grasping hands. She would be able to feel as the life slowly drained from her body… she would be able to fully lose hope before surrendering, gratefully, to the dark abyss that beckoned her- just another victim.

Fudge watched gleefully as the woman's body finally went limp, the color draining from her sweet face. The man stooping over her groaned in completion and pulled away, smirking at his companions. They grumbled back at him irritably ("Not fair!" "He got the last one too!" "Do we _have_ to do this by lots?")

Macnair stood with shuddering effort. "That's just the way it is, boys."

Fudge straightened from his position leaning against the wall. "Now that I've been entertained- I believe I am ready to see him. If you please…?"

"Of course, Mr. Fudge."

The men simpered and bowed, and then with haste ushered him out the door.

Fudge hadn't been sure when this mystery man, Riddle, had first contacted him. _Of course_, he'd heard the rumors- who hadn't?

Riddle had been from a well-to-do family when somewhere along the way he'd gone off. Some thought he'd crossed the barely visible line between brilliance and madness when he'd been kidnapped and held for ransom as a teen, while others assumed he'd had a mind for wicked purposes all along. After murdering his family (so the rumors go), Riddle gathered followers. Most were from other wealthy families, and were the children of his parent's former friends. They all united under one central belief:_ not all people deserved to live_. There were useless people in the world only good for taking up air and space, and Riddle gave his followers the means to wipe them out.

They'd been mere bullies at first, beating people into submission who stood in their way and slashing the throats of those who were undeserving of life, but now- now they had the potential for so much more!

Riddle had contacted him about an experimental theory being researched in The Institute of Chemical Solutions, a research facility that just happened to fall under Fudge's jurisdiction within the Ministry just a week ago. Fudge, as head Secretary of Scientific Research, was privy to all the outs and ins of the material. Riddle deemed Fudge to have at least a little worth.

Soon after, an invitation was sent out, appearing unobtrusively within the stack of papers on Fudge's desk one bright and early Monday morning. Riddle, in flattering and admiring language, asked for an audience proceeded by a show that Riddle promised he would enjoy very much. Pleasantly surprised, Fudge agreed and was taken to a dark, dank cellar where a woman was unceremoniously questioned and tortured. That was a little over twenty minutes ago. He had enjoyed the show indeed… though it bothered him a tad bit that Riddle had known his…_pleasures_.

The men came to an abrupt halt in front of him. His brows furrowed. "Yes? Is there a problem?"

Macnair, apparently elected spokesperson, shrugged within his dark robes. "Riddle is inside, Mr. Fudge. He is waiting for you, but only you can go in."

"Ah." He nodded, pushing past them and brushing back the curtains that hung in the doorway.

The room he entered was dark to the extent that he could only barely make out the blurred shape of his hand reaching out to guide himself. A chuckle sounded as his efforts of maneuvering ended with him stubbing his toe on what felt like the sturdy wood leg of an arm chair.

"Please Mr. Fudge, sit. The chair is in front of you."

Fudge grumbled inwardly, but shuffled around the obstruction and plopped down on its soft cushions.

"I gather you know why I have called you here."

Fudge nodded, and then irritably realized it wasn't visible. He cleared his throat which was suddenly clamping down tensely. "Erm…yes. The micro-bead research, specifically the timed release subjects."

There was something of a smirk in Riddle's voice. "Yes, you are correct."

An awkward silence fell, and Fudge sat on his fingers roughly to keep from fidgeting. "Is there a reason for the lack of lighting?"

"I find it saves me a great deal on my electric bills."

Fudge gaped- surely that wasn't _all_?! He held back the outrage that threatened to burst out as the sound of cloth sliding against leather announced that Riddle was sliding forward. He imagined he could feel the other man's breath on his cheek.

"Now, Mr. Fudge, will I have your cooperation?"

"Well I- that is…"

"This will involve everything you know on the project we spoke of- research, notes, tests… In return you will receive ties to myself and my followers- the position of Minister will be within reach, Mr. Fudge. I have friends in very high places…"

"Yes, yes." Fudge nearly drooled at the prospect of a cushy position in the Ministry- well cushier than his own was proving. "You have my cooperation."

"Splendid." Fudge could hear the delight in Riddle's voice and shuddered at the sound.


	2. Chapter 2

Percy Weasley was known for his near manic neatness. Red hair trimmed conservatively, robes without a speck of dust, and horn-rimmed glasses perfectly polished, he was the poster-boy for the ministry. 'An intelligent and enthusiastic young up-and-comer' was the official phrase used.

Upon his graduation from one of the more well-respected boarding schools in the country, Percy was immediately snatched up and offered a position within the Ministry before any other offers could be made on him according to his outstanding grades and leadership abilities. Upon accepting the offer, Percy was shoved into a small office and made a glorified delivery boy.

"_Oh, Weasley. Would you mind…?"_

"_Percy, my dear! So good to see you well! Listen…there's this thing I'd like you to do…"_

"_I know your hands are full, but would you mind terribly doing me a favor?"_

Percy however, unlike his fellow new employees, realized the necessity of working up the career ladder. Instead of being outraged, he made contacts, did favors and flattered his superiors. Within 6 months of working he'd been promoted to Assistant to the Secretary of the Department of Scientific Research. Granted, the job involved little more than fetching coffee and acting as receptionist- but it was one very large step up the ladder to success.

Though recently, Percy had become rather worried as to the safety of his position. Lately his superior, a short and squat man named Fudge, had been very suspicious, twitchy even. Percy had given up on figuring out just what was wrong with his boss after Fudge had blown up at him for emptying his trashcans without permission. Percy was certain that he would lose his job- either by firing or by his superior being removed from public office for incompetence.

Nevertheless Fudge was still his superior and so Percy continued to carry out his orders, and turn a blind eye when Fudge began to be visited by intimidating looking men dressed in the most peculiar fashion.

The men seemed to be Arabs by their robes, but Percy reflected with a glance at their pale faces that they were the oddest Arabs he'd ever come across, though admittedly that number was few.

Fudge was always in an odd way after these visits. Either on the top of the world, he would grab his coat and giggle his way to the lifts home, or so devastated that Percy could hear sobbing coming through the heavy oak doors separating his office from Percy's small secretary station. Percy was quite at a loss for the situation, and simply resigned himself to being left completely out of the loop.

Regardless of that blasé mindset, it came as quite a nasty shock when Percy showed up for work one Monday morning and discovered his superior dead. Fudge was nearly unrecognizable, sprawled atop his desk in an undoubtedly uncomfortable position, limbs splayed. Blood, though now dry, was splashed over his keyboard and unfinished documents, all seeming to have been hastily shoved to the side in a great struggle. However unpleasant the blood-soaked desk was, it had nothing on the actual remains of Fudge. Percy found the nail marks covering the upper part of the man's- no corpses'- face to be particularly disturbing. Fudge had attempted and partially succeeded in clawing his eyes out.

Percy gagged at the thick odor of blood and death in the room, immediately breathing out of his mouth to compensate. After he was done staring like an imbecile at the prone form- _he's not breathing, not breathing!_ - He lunged for his telephone, shakily dialing a number.

"Emergency Services- how may I be of assistance?"

"Um…h-hello. I've just come across my superior. Ah, he's been killed."

"Calm down, sir. Are you sure? Can you see any movement? Is there a pulse?"

"H-ha- no, he's quite dead."

"Alright then, we'll send someone over immediately. Where are you?"

"The Ministry in London, the…Department of Scientific Research. S-Secretary Fudge's office."

"They'll be over in a few minutes. Would you like me to stay on the line?"

"N-no. I'm fine, I think."

"Very well, I hope you are. Good bye."

"Yes- good bye."

Percy flopped boneless into his chair, covering his face in his hands to block out the sight within the open (_Stupid! Why didn't you close them?!)_ double doors opposite of him.

The next few minutes passed in relative silence, only interrupted by the harsh panting of the red haired man, bent over in his chair in an attempt to stem the hyperventilating. By the time he had calmed his breathing, the paramedics had arrived, followed a few seconds behind by the police.

With one glance at the obviously panicked young man, a paramedic appeared by his side in an instant, waving the others to move on without her. The police, especially a stern and surly looking man- their Chief, Percy assumed distractedly, stood awkwardly in the doorway, eyeing him warily, before scurrying into the crime scene.

The paramedic, Poppy by her name tag, smiled brightly at him. "And how are we doing then…ah-?"

"Percy," he supplied. He unfolded from his position, hoping he wouldn't burst into tears as completely make an ass out of himself. "Percy Weasley."

"Ah, Percy. I'm terribly sorry for what you've gone through this morning. Did you know the victim well?"

His eyes were dry, a definite good sign. "Not really." Unfortunately, his voice was only coming out a rasping whisper as if it had been partially scared off by the situation. "He was just my superior."

"Still," she interjected, eyes shining in a maternal light toward him. "It's a horrible thing to see. Can I do anything for you? Are you hurt in any way?"

"I don't think so. But…do you think I could leave?"

'Poppy' clucked sympathetically at him, patting his shoulder with a firm and steady hand. "I'm afraid not. These fine gentlemen will probably have some questions for you."

Sure enough, a few of the aforementioned men took hesitant steps toward him. One officer, the only man in the group close to Percy's age, stuck out his hand with a pleasant smile. "Oliver Wood, at your service."

Percy attempted to give a smile in return and, needless to say, failed miserably. What resulted was a sort of pained grimace. "Hello."

"It's been a bit of a rough day for you, eh?"

"…I suppose you could say that."

A stern man with the most heavily lined face of the group coughed loudly in an unforgiving _gurrump! _The young man, 'Oliver', had the decency to look sheepish.

"That's enough, Wood. Mr. Weasley, could I trouble you for a word?"

Percy blinked in surprise. "Of course."

"I understand you were the one to find the victim- a Mr. Cornelius Fudge?"

"That's correct."

"Did you notice any peculiar behavior by Mr. Fudge in the days leading to his murder?"

"Not really." Percy paused, brow crinkling in thought. "He's been acting so strange from almost when I first started working for him that it's difficult to tell."

"When was it that you started working for him?"

"Ah…must have been around six months ago." Percy could hear the _scritch scratch_ of the Chief's pencil.

"What exactly has been strange about his behavior?"

_Hmm…how to say it?_ "He's been on edge, I guess. Yelling at me for silly things like emptying his trash and making his appointments- things I'm supposed to do really."

"Is there anything else?"

"Yes, he's been getting odd sorts of visitors. They looked a bit like Arabs- the way they were dressed at least. Even though they were pale-skinned, most of them, they wore these robe things with material draped over their heads."

More notes were scribbled down and the Police Chief graced him with a weary smile. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Weasley."

Percy sagged in his chair, exhausted. "Don't mention it."

"You are free to go."

"Thank you." Percy nearly sprinted out the door.


	3. Chapter 3

Back at his cramped and crowded flat- the only housing available to him on his modest salary- Percy cast a longing glance at the celebratory bourbon he had received from his family for his position within the Ministry. He wouldn't touch it though- oh no, he would never touch it. Instead, Percy set water to boil on the stove and quickly readied his chamomile tea for drinking.

An empty tea cup later, he stumbled bleary-eyed into his bedroom to sleep. One, ten, twenty-five minutes passed and all Percy could see was the prone form of his employer- or rather, _former_ employer.

Fudge's entire face twisted up into an expression of terror- eyes covered in crusted blood, mouth agape and forming a scream. His body limp and contorted- limbs splayed at odd angles, nails bitten down to the quick-

Percy did not sleep well.

The next morning dawned and it was Tuesday. Percy stared morosely at the calendar and debated whether or not he was expected to show up at work. Certainly there would be granted time off for traumatic experiences…

The telephone rang and saved him the trouble of deciding.

"Hello? Is this Percy Weasley speaking?"

"Yes, this is he."

"This is Emmeline Vance, assistant to the Minister."

"How do you do, Miss Vance?"

"Quite well, thank you. I have a message from the Minister for you, Mr. Weasley."

"Oh?"

"He would like to extend his deepest sympathies for your experience yesterday, but asks that you come into work despite the fact. You will report to his office at ten o'clock."

"Thank you."

"Of course. Goodbye."

Percy set the receiver back on its cradle, and collapsed backward onto his mattress. The clock beside the bed clicked to 8:27. He groaned, rolling over and tangling himself back in his sheets. Just a little more sleep wouldn't hurt…

Bloodshot pupils, broken bones, blood _everywhere_-

Percy jumped out of bed. Right- that was enough sleep for him.

By 9:39 Percy was fed, showered, dressed, and nearly able to repress the events of the previous day. Rapping sharply on his oak door for good measure he started a brisk pace for the ten-minute walk to the Ministry offices.

Moments later found him outside the Minister's office, staring down the attractive, dark-haired secretary. She waved him toward a chair as she finished up a phone conversation.

"—Yes, yes. —Well, I don't rightly know whether or not the Minister _promised_ you a conference, but I do know that you are not in my records, sir. That means that you will have to apply for an appointment just like everyone else. —No, I am not joking. —I'm _terribly _sorry for the inconvenience. —All that being said, I await your call with anticipation. —Yes, that _was_ sarcasm. —A good day to you as well."

She slammed down the phone with a frustrated huff before standing swiftly, pushing her desk chair back a foot. Holding a hand out to shake, she smiled brightly.

"Percy Weasley, I presume? I'm Emmeline Vance—we spoke on the phone."

"Yes, I remember," Percy muttered as he shook her hand briskly.

"The Minister is expecting you," Emmeline said. "Please follow me."

"Of course," Percy replied in a murmur, following her through the oak doors behind her desk and into a large and intimidating office.

The Minister's office was… daunting to say the least. The paneled walls were the same dark, polished oak of the doors, with portraits of past Ministers hanging every here-and-there. The portraits were so lifelike that they warranted a second glance, and Percy found himself intently studying the regal visage of a 'Phineas Black' when the Minister first spoke.

"Weasley? Ah, I've been expecting you."

Percy turned, cheeks blazing at his inattentiveness. "Y-Yes?"

"Been a couple of trying days, hasn't it?" The Minister said jovially, motioning to a winged chair in front of his rather imposing desk, "Have a seat, if you would."

"Of course." Percy sat on the polished leather lightly, ready to spring up at a moment's notice.

"Now," the Minister remarked, shifting toward Percy across the desk. "I have some good news, my boy."

"Oh?"

"You are officially promoted!" The Minister chuckled to himself, but then rid his face of any joviality. "We will continue to mourn the tragic loss of former Secretary Fudge, naturally- but the show must go on!"

"W-Well thank you, sir! May I ask though," Percy said with a worried brow, "May I ask why I was chosen for the position?"

The Minister beamed at him while delivering the verdict. "You are the only candidate. I **had** to promote you to Head Secretary!" He chuckled again. "Funny how things work out sometimes…"

Percy choked over his words. "T-the _only_ candidate? Surely not!"

"Yes- due to the fact that the rest have been involved in rather… unfortunate accidents as of late."

"A-Accidents?"

"Well, they're all dead," the Minister said with a frown. "We can't quite figure it out. One of a drowning incident; another of a rare disease found only in the Amazon; two of car crashes; and the last six of unexplained medical issues ending in cardiac arrest. And all in the last two weeks- it's absolutely baffling!"

"Ah… sir? Isn't that somewhat suspicious? Am I- am I in danger?"

"Oh no, my boy!" The Minister looked genuinely shocked at Percy's inquiry. "You're perfectly safe. We've just had a string of bad luck as of late. Besides," he laughed uproariously. "You've been appointed the head post of scientific research! It isn't as if anyone would want to kill _you_!"

Percy, oddly enough, was not comforted by this justification. He gulped and winced at the pain as his dry throat contracted. "Thank you for the opportunity all the same."

"You're very welcome! Do us all proud! You're dismissed, my boy. Take the rest of the day off to celebrate." He waggled his eyebrows meaningfully. "Take your _squeeze_ out on the town- buy her something sparkly."

"Ah, I don't quite know what you-"

_Ring, ring!_

"Oh, it's my wife." The Minister sighed loudly and threw a longing glance toward the door before motioning Percy toward it. "I need to take this, Mr. Weasley. If you would excuse me?"

"Oh," Percy blinked and hastily stood from his seat. "Of course, Minister." As he walked out of the office he could just make out the older man's wife shrieking through the telephone receiver. He shuddered in sympathy and congratulated himself on managing to escape the pressures of a relationship.

The secretary flashed him a smile as he passed by her desk. "Pleasant meeting, Mr. Weasley?"

Percy cleared his throat nervously. "Ah, I suppose." _Is she __**flirting**__ with me? _"I was promoted."

"Why congratulations!"

Her laughter grated on his fragile nerves and Percy found himself struggling to hide a wince. _Yes, she is indeed flirting… _"It was a pleasant shock to me as well."

The phone rang shrilly on her desk and she tossed him one last coy glance before picking it up with a sigh. "Emmeline Vance here." She waggled her fingers at Percy in farewell. "No- I've already told you. You have _no_ appointment!"

Percy smiled weakly and took his leave from the office. _The rest of the day off… What does one do with all of that time?_


	4. Chapter 4

"Why, Percy! What a splendid surprise!" The robust woman beamed happily at the man who shared her curling auburn hair and dark blue eyes. "Arthur! Our son is home!"

Percy offered a weak smile to the balding man as his mother proceeded to crush him in a hug. His father, not one for emotional greetings, offered him a small smile and sturdy handshake once he'd caught his breath again.

"Good to see you, son," Arthur said, while looking him over. "You look positively knackered."

"A bit," Percy admitted in a low tone, enduring his mother's fussing.

"Molly," Arthur chided softly. "Give the boy some room to breathe."

Clucking her displeasure, Molly did just that, backing up a couple of paces and beaming at her son framed in the doorway still. "_So_ good to see you, dear. How long will you stay?"

Percy motioned toward a carpet bag that rested on the pavement behind him. "For a while, I think," he remarked with an even tone. "There was an incident at work, you see."

"In trouble, are you?" Arthur asked with a raised brow.

"Not just so, but I-" Percy paused as he remembered his encounter with the Minister. "Well, my superior—Fudge, you know—was killed just yesterday. I've inherited his job it seems."

"Killed?" Molly asked with a hard gasp.

"Yes," Percy said, purposefully avoiding his parents' concerned eyes. "He was attacked in his office somehow- no suspects yet."

"Well then- is this quite safe? Should we be worried for you?"

"Ah, of course n-" Percy hesitated, remembering the odd circumstances of his predecessor's death and the subsequent fatalities of his would-be replacements. "I-I don't believe so. "

"Well," Molly cooed lovingly, "It's so lovely to have you home no matter the nasty situation. I'll call your brother—he's home for a kip as well, you know—RONALD! COME SAY HELLO TO YOUR BROTHER—HE'S BEEN PROMOTED!"

* * *

Riddle was not a nice man. Along with not being nice, Riddle was not a particularly trusting man. Accordingly, the bulk of his followers were not privy to the dark reality of his plans—that was a privilege saved for the upper echelons of his faithful. All the bulk of them knew was that Riddle was preparing—indeed, _had_ prepared—a poison so potent that death would tremble before its torturous gaze.

Macnair fought back the bile that threatened to disgrace him as what seemed to have once been a human form writhed at his feet. This was the poison's newest victim, the poor wretch. The girl had possessed a serene beauty when he was first brought in, though now that was shattered by the poison broiling within her veins. It was truly disgusting how easily this concoction could turn a beauty into a franticly screaming shrew. Personally, Macnair preferred to perform the torture himself—to feel flesh bruise and bones crack and see the fear that clouded his victim's eyes.

That wasn't the case with this sort of chemical torture. The girl's face was barely even recognizable now—she'd started to claw at her eyes in desperation only a few minutes ago—and this self-inflicted damage gave him no pleasure to watch. He felt his stomach rebel at the unnaturalness of it all. He composed himself cautiously with a quick glance at the security camera in the corner of the room.

Riddle, they said, watched every instance of testing. The poison, it was confirmed, worked perfectly and therefore testing was a moot point. Riddle just liked to watch. Macnair swallowed harshly and the writhing form released a particularly shrill scream. A moment later, a tinny voice sounded from the camera.

"Macnair- use the prod, would you?"

With a stiff nod, Macnair picked up the electric cattle prod from where he'd leant it against the wall. This was his least favorite part, if he had to choose. He would nudge the body with the prod and an electrical current would rush through the body, drawing out more pained screams and the faint smell of burnt flesh. The electrical current, however, would hasten the body toward its demise, accelerating the poison—it was almost over, thank god.

Two stories above, in his control room, Riddle watched the video feed in a deathly silence.

* * *

Percy awoke panting, sweating, and wondering whether he would ever be rid of the tortured visage of his former employer. He'd thought that a change of scenery would improve his mental state, but all Percy felt was smothered—from his mother's inquisitive nature and his night terrors.

A glance at the bedside table and clock revealed it to be just a quarter past four in the morning and Percy sighed in disappointment. He had hoped to sleep until five, but it seemed his traitorous mind disagreed.

With a groan he maneuvered his legs out of bed, his body following naturally. An early day at the office, he supposed. Might as well make a good first impression…

Nearly an hour later, Percy took a deep breath and stepped into the office of his predecessor. It had been cleaned—in fact, it still smelled of the lemon cleaner—but Percy had to shake his head to dislodge the image of a broken and bloody Fudge from his eyes.

Luckily, there was already work to be done, evidenced by the stacked reports almost overflowing from his in-basket. He allowed himself a moment of puffed-up pride at his sheer importance, and then set to work, not stopping until the office was bustling with early-morning activity.

* * *

Oliver Wood frowned as he examined a photo of a crime scene. The case was an odd one: a ministry high-up found dead by his assistant with his body bent, twisted and mutilated. Couldn't be suicide—it was too messy and the set-up was all wrong. Murder, then. But what motive? And why was Fudge killed at work rather than at home where he wouldn't be as easily discovered? It was all highly suspicious, and Oliver was naturally intrigued.

…And it didn't hurt that Fudge's assistant was a remarkably handsome man hiding behind horn-rimmed glasses. Oliver quirked a smile, making a note to revisit the scene and ask a few more questions of Percy Weasley. In fact-

Grabbing his coat, Oliver closed the space between his desk and the door with long strides. He poked his head briefly in another room—"Eh- alright there, Granger?"

The bushy-haired detective looked up with a raised brow. "Yes, thank you. And you, Wood? Where are you off to? Have _investigating _to be done?"

Oliver grinned. "You know me too well. Just going to pop down to the Ministry—lots of important police business to transact and all that. Back in an hour or so." He blew her a cheeky kiss as he turned on his heel. "Cheers," he called as he passed through the doorway.

The woman snorted, watching him as he bounded out of the room, before turning back to her paperwork. After all, s_omebody_ had to be responsible around here.


	5. Chapter 5

Percy rolled his shoulders irritably, feeling the strain of hours of hunching over a desk. He straightened carefully – wincing at the ominous cracking of his spine—and seeing the ruins of a shattered keyboard in the rubbish bin—the product of a gruesome struggle—hurriedly hunched his figure once more. Paperwork, it seemed, was the only safe thing left in the office.

Blinking weary eyes at tiny font, Percy bit back a yawn. He cast a longing glance in the direction of the door as his stomach chose that moment to rebel, gurgling for the sake of hunger. He frowned, not appreciating his body's protests—after all it was still mid-morning… a glance at the clock revealed that it was indeed lunch hour, and Percy started in surprise. Where had the morning gone?

Deciding a meal was in order, he stood from his chair, pushing it back as he brushed unfinished paperwork into a neat pile. Another grumble from his stomach made him quicken his pace, and he swept out of the room, grabbing his coat as he went.

A blonde head peeked up from behind a computer terminal as he made his way toward the lift. "Whereabouts are you going, Mr. Weasley?"

"To grab a bite, Luna, that's all." He smiled at his assistant, a bright, young up-and-comer who reminded him of himself, despite her outlandish assortment of jewelry. Today's practical business suit was paired with radish earrings and a coke tab necklace.

"Watch out for the pixies they serve at that Indian place down the road. They always give me indigestion," she advised him sagely.

He nodded in bemusement and waved goodbye, heading toward the lift again. Reaching toward the button indicating 'down,' he jumped in shock as the doors opened straight away of their own accord and a grinning brunet stuck his hand out in greeting. "Mr. Percy Weasley—so we meet again! Oliver Wood, remember?"

Percy nodded, an image of the young police officer from the previous day coming to the forefront of his mind. "Ah, yes. Can I do something for you?"

Oliver's grin brightened. "Just keep me company for lunch, that's all. I can tell you a bit about our progress on the case. Does Indian sound alright to you?"

Blinking in surprise, Percy joined the man in the elevator. "Perhaps we'd better go to Thai instead."

* * *

Finally seated at a table in the agreed upon establishment, Oliver grinned widely at his lunch companion. "Settling in to the new digs, eh?"

Percy felt his lips twitch upward in acknowledgement, finding the other man's cheer to be contagious. "As well as can be expected," he said with a shrug. "I'm afraid I'm still a bit shaken up about the whole thing."

Oliver hummed in agreement, beckoning over the waitress. Having placed their orders, his face took on a more somber expression. "I'd like to discuss the case a bit with you if you don't mind. I'm having trouble putting everything together…"

"Any help that I can give," Percy responded, jutting his chin and pursing his lips stubbornly against the part of him that protested at remembering the details of the gory ordeal.

"Right," Oliver muttered distractedly, his eyes darting to glance at the pouted mouth. The arrival of food headed off whatever track his mind had been about to embark upon however, and the both of them tucked in with relish, making small talk to accompany the meal.

By the time their plates were cleared, Oliver felt confident enough to consider the outing a success. He had not only acquired the cooperation of a person vital to his investigation, but also the personal details of said compelling person.

Percy Weasley, Oliver discovered, was the third eldest of six children. He was a precocious child, who grappled with his siblings for attention by means of his success. At twenty-five years of age he now held the auspicious role of Secretary of the Department of Scientific Research, though the promotion was due largely in part to the untimely demise of his predecessor. Percy's animation when speaking of new scientific breakthroughs and genuine devotion to his field of study, however, convinced Oliver of his innocence in any deadly plot.

Smiling, Oliver interrupted Percy's monologue on the current research of the long-term effects of chemical injections with a wave of the check. "Sorry to cut you off there, but I was wondering—could you show me around your office?"

Percy returned the smile, feeling a flush rise to his cheeks from being caught in a rant. "Ah, yes. Of course." Noticing the bill's whereabouts, he protested: "Oh please- let me-"

Oliver clucked his tongue in disapproval—"'Fraid not. Police business, you see." He chuckled. "Next one can be on you, yeah?"

* * *

Speakers trilled out a jazzy tune as the lift hummed in movement. Percy shot a glance at the man beside him as the lit numbers of the panel traveled upward—ground floor, one, two…

After requesting another tour of Percy's office, Oliver had kept to lighter subjects and the two had comfortably chatted over the recent sunny spell and the newest film releases. Upon entering the government building, however, Oliver's face had shuttered as he focused on business—or so Percy assumed.

The doors opened at level three, and Oliver motioned for Percy to lead the way: "Your office," he chided with a grin. Percy nodded, stepping out of the lift and started toward his office. Reaching the computer terminal that housed his assistant, he tapped lightly on the partition.

A blonde head popped up from behind a large monitor, and Luna's vacant gaze leveled on the pair. "I see you are intact. Very good."

Feeling Oliver shift hesitantly beside him, Percy coughed in embarrassment. "Ah, yes. Oliver, this is my assistant, Luna Lovegood. Luna, meet Oliver Wood, an officer on the case of… ah, Mr. Fudge."

Luna stood abruptly, her hand reaching toward Oliver in one swift motion. Blinking in surprise, Oliver accepted the offered hand with a bemused smile, shaking it firmly.

Hiding a smirk as Oliver failed at retrieving his hand from the Luna's grip—Percy knew from experience how strong the slender blonde was—he cleared his throat. "I'm just going to show Oliver—ah, Officer Wood—my office. Please hold any calls until we're finished."

Luna released the policeman's hand with a pale raised brow. "Quite."

Feeling a flush rise to his cheeks, Percy narrowed his eyes at his assistant and turned on his heel. Opening the door to his office, he stepped toward his desk, motioning at the rest of the room: "Well, this is it."

"Where the magic happens, eh?" Oliver chuckled. "Mind if I poke around a bit?"

"Wherever you'd like."

The next quarter of an hour was filled with silence, except for the quiet shuffling of paper. Turning away from the filing cabinet that he had been rooting through, Oliver heaved a sigh as he reached yet another dead end. The sigh startled Percy, who looked up and cocked a sympathetic brow.

"Nothing?"

Oliver glanced over—"Not so far."

"What are you looking for exactly? Is there anything I can help with?"

"Well—it's like this." Oliver turned to face Percy with a furrowed brow. "We have two choices in this case: suicide or murder. But, the problem with suicide is—he used a method that doesn't indicate suicide. It was closer to torture as it stands. Murder, we're left with then." He ran a shaky hand through his hair.

"If that's the case then we need the motive and the means. But these files," he patted the cabinet, "aren't giving me much in the way of help. But- maybe you can help me out? In the case report, you said Fudge was acting oddly before his death?"

Percy pushed aside his paperwork and rummaged through a side drawer in the desk. "Yes—he had a few meetings with odd characters wearing Arab robes. I have his planner if you'd like to see…"

He rummaged a bit more and with a triumphal smile, unearthed it from a stack of messy papers. "I kept it because it has some notes on appointments that I haven't updated my own planner with."

Oliver accepted the small notebook, and flipped through it with care, making note of the dates as he went. "When about were these meetings? Recently?"

Biting his lower lip in thought (though Oliver was _not _distracted in the least), Percy hummed in thought. "There were a few meetings—but all rather recent, I think. They started maybe three weeks ago or so?"

Turning to approximately three weeks prior in the planner, Oliver scoured the pages for any clues he could find. Percy shuffled closer, angling his head for a view of the book and after a moment of silent study, pointed at a date in triumph.

"There! March 21, see that?"

Oliver did, in fact, see _that_—Fudge's messy scrawl was nearly incomprehensible, but he could barely make out "mtg. w/ R. re: Sn. Serum."

"What the devil is all this then?"

"It says that he had a meeting with some person or organization 'R' regarding a particular serum under our jurisdiction. I haven't seen that abbreviation before though." He frowned in thought. "I wonder…"

Percy rushed to the desk, opened drawers haphazardly and rummaging through them until at last he extracted an overflowing binder. "This is the record for the department's ongoing research—we're beginning to make everything digital, but the bulk of our projects are housed in here," he explained, flipping through the binder with ease.

_Sa., Sk., Sl. … Sn._

"Here it is!" Percy exclaimed, jabbing a finger at the proper section. "The Snape Serum—it's some kind of long-term sustainable method of distributing medicine directly into one's system… but, it was never awarded a grant—'too easily abused' this says, dated a full week before he met with 'R.'"

Percy and Oliver exchanged a heavy glance.

"So what was Fudge doing discussing it after it's been denied with this 'R' character?" Oliver finished for him.


	6. Chapter 6

Severus Snape reflected that he was indeed the unluckiest genius in all of history. Responsible for the scientific breakthrough of the _century_—a chemical implant that removed all the guesswork from administering medicine and revolutionized rehabilitation treatments the world over—and yet denied a grant because said breakthrough was too easily susceptible to abuse.

Imbeciles, he thought and poured himself a generous helping of scotch.

The grant had been his last chance. His debt—incurred in the pursuit of his research—had been called in by the rather unsavory characters who had lent him the thousands of pounds he required, and now Snape resided where no man in his right mind would ever look: a rickety old shack by the name of Spinner's End.

Spinner's End was, in polite terms, a dingy structure. Walls stained a murky brown from the constant slush of rain and eroding ground, the dilapidated home of some old bint long-since-dead was the ideal hole for the sly scientist to hide in. Snape was, in short, a squatter.

He had stumbled across the place just short of two months ago, when the notices from his 'generous patrons' became disturbingly dark and threatening. In a sad attempt at repayment, he had resubmitted his request for a grant—turned down already by the private medical research community— though this time to the government itself. Denied by Secretary Fudge, humiliated in the face of his peers and rather concerned for his continued well-being, Snape had left London in disgrace and his bad luck continued as his rented car broke down in the countryside. Sheer chance caused him to glance toward the hills while fetching the spare tire.

Ruins of a home long since cared for had gazed forlornly on the motorway, and Snape spared it little thought at the time, replacing his tire and going on his way. Two weeks later, his creditors seeking him out with less-than-admirable intentions, he packed a trunk with his most precious possessions—his research notes, a set of spare clothes and a good, strong bottle of scotch—and moved into the run-down shack. Though he now felt reasonably secure in his health, Snape brooded over his sad fate.

If only those bastards in the Department of Scientific Research would have realized the sheer _potential_ of his advancements! But such thoughts were moot now. It was now time to salvage the situation. Ah, yes- Snape decided- it was time for scotch.

* * *

Since parting with Percy and left feeling more confident in the suspicious nature of Fudge's behavior in the weeks leading up to his bloody demise, Oliver had returned to the station. A bit of solo investigation would have been alright for a clear-cut suicide case, but a development of this nature required that he inform his superior.

He found Kingsley in his office, reviewing the case materials for a double homicide.

Knocking on the door lightly, he met the raised brows of his boss with a grin. "How go things, Chief?"

With a dry smile, Kingsley put aside his fountain pen, folded his hands and faced Oliver. "What have you done now, Wood?"

"Eh, nothing much. Business lunch here, murder investigation there, bit of foul play thrown in for a bit of a treat-"

"You mean to say," Kingsley interrupted with a dubious tone, "that you've made a breakthrough on the Fudge case?"

"Of sorts. Got to pull the Ministry's records on a denied grant—on a Snape something or other—and something called 'R' in Fudge's diary."

"By all means," the dark man remarked with resignation, "knock yourself out, Wood."

"Ta." Oliver grinned and left the other man to his work.

On his way to the double doors marked 'exit,' he was stopped by a bushy head popping from behind a partitioned office.

"Who're you off to torment now?" Hermione's eyes were narrowed as she looked him over. "_Tsk_," she chided softly, "Not even in proper dress…"

With a glance down at his casual ensemble of jeans, sneakers and obscure band tee, Oliver's brow crinkled in confusion. "I look fine, don't I?"

She rolled her eyes. "You haven't answered me—where are you off to? Is Mr. Weasley in want of company?" A wicked smile played around her lips.

Oliver could feel his face heat awkwardly and he shuffled his feet to distract himself. "Research to be done, actually."

"Oh, is that what they call it?" She snorted and waved him away. "Away with you then."

"Nosy bint," Oliver teased, "See if I get you that bloke from the mailroom's number—"

Hermione's glare was savage: "Don't you even-"

Oliver chuckled as he ducked out of the room—she was _far_ too easy to rile up.

* * *

The Ministry Library was much as Oliver remembered it—hopelessly dull. Bland colors dominated the walls and floor; seemingly endless stacks of books were cluttered on dilapidated shelving. What hope did he have of finding anything of real value to his investigation?

He could sum up his situation in but one word: _Bullocks._

Spotting an employee—a frazzled woman whose name tag dubbed her _Irma_—he ventured his way to the front desk.

"Ah—excuse me—Miss?"

"_Ms. _Pince, young man." She turned from the books she was fussing over to look him over with pursed lips. With an offended sniff, she narrowed her eyes at his sloppy appearance, muttering about the insensitivities of youth.

"_Ms_. Pince then," he said with a conciliatory smile. "Could you direct me to the section on scientific grants?"

Raising a thin brow, the librarian assessed him. "Do you have a permit, sonny?"

"Police," he explained, pulling his badge from his jeans pocket. "Investigative unit looking into Secretary Fudge's death—could you please show me the books?"

With a huff, she left her place behind the desk, motioning for him to follow. As they darted in and out of book shelves, he once again marveled at the sheer number of useless old tomes. The library was virtually empty, with only a few readers keeping the librarian company

The lack of patrons became even more apparent as Ms. Pince led him up a carefully tucked away flight of stairs. The new room he found himself in was even less populated, its lone occupant being a swarthy man whose head nodded in sleep even as he leaned over a vast volume of material.

"Here," the librarian announced with a wave of her hand, "the scientific grant section— starts at 1 and ends at 86."

"86 grants?" Oliver ventured a smile, "That sounds manageable. Thanks for—"

Ms. Pince smiled maliciously at his naiveté. "All 86 _volumes_ of grants, Officer. Good luck."

She turned on her heel and strode to the other man in the room. "Macnair," she hissed irritably, "This is a library, _not _a dormitory. If you can't stay awake, then _leave-"Her_ kick to his chair having successfully jarred the dozing man from his rest, Ms. Pince swept from the room, grumbling under her breath.

Oliver shot the man a sympathetic glance: "Rotten luck, eh? Few minutes of reading this rubbish," he pulled the first book from the shelf, "and I'll be joining you there in that nap."

Macnair returned his grin, albeit sleepily, and went back to his own work.

Sometime and seventeen books later (luckily each book had contained an index for easy referencing), Oliver was at a loss to find the eighteenth. Having already checked the entire shelf and found nothing out of order, he turned to his last resort.

"Hey there, Macnair, was it?"

The man glanced up from his reading with guarded eyes. "What can I do for you?"

"Happen to have a volume eighteen I could take a look at?"

"Oh," Macnair shrugged and offered the book. "Been finished for a few minutes already so you can have it. 'Bout time to get some grub in me anyway."

Thanking him, Oliver opened the book to the table of contents. Seeing a record that looked promising, he waved down Macnair before he could leave.

"Think this is what I need—thanks again. You be needing this back at any time—should I bookmark a page?"

"Ah—no, just looking at some of the new ideas out there. Good to keep on top of these things for work, you know."

"Really?" Oliver cocked his head in question. "Whereabouts do you work?"

"Here in the Ministry," Macnair explained. "Wildlife division—animal control and all that racket."

"Sounds like a good line to be in," Oliver replied with a friendly smile. He stretched out his arm to shake Macnair's hand. "Grateful to you. Have a good supper."

"Will do. Cheers."

Alone once again, Oliver sat to study the volume. A work in six parts, it outlined the proposals of inventors and the subsequent actions of the ministry, to either approve or deny for a grant.

Two dealt with alternative energies; both were denied due to inadequate cost analysis. Another proposed a breakthrough diet supplement, which was denied for the lack of a comprehensive case study. Two others introduced cost efficient pharmaceuticals; both passed to receive basic grants. The last detailed a new method of administering medicine, petitioned by a Mr. S. Snape and denied by Secretary Fudge for inadequate defense against abuse.

This was the one, Oliver thought with awe. He raced over to the copier—he couldn't wait to show Percy! And investigate the matter, of course.

In all of the excitement, Oliver failed to realize that the man who had given him the book had no business reading it in the first place. Such a thought would not occur to him until much later.


	7. Chapter 7

It was unfortunate that his meeting had to occur at _this _particular time. Percy purposefully smoothed his brow as he felt a frown threaten to break out.

"Yes, Mr. Malfoy, I'm sure that he is very qualified. The fact remains that the position is already filled," Percy said, swallowing a frustrated sigh as his response caused Lucius to set off on a new tirade on his son's superior qualities.

When Oliver had run off to conduct more research earlier, Percy had wanted to dig through Fudge's files in the hopes of helping the investigation. He felt a sense of ownership for the case—naturally, considering it was _his_ murdered superior—and enjoyed the thrill of following clues to their inevitable conclusion.

But instead of enjoying the satisfaction of playing detective, he was privy to the obnoxious charms of Lucius Malfoy, one of the many power-hungry elites of British political society. Currently Malfoy Sr.'s crusade was to attain the enviable position of Assistant to the Secretary of the Department of Scientific Research for his son Draco. While Percy had to admit that Draco's qualifications were immense for his age (he was set to graduate in the spring), he was annoyed that Lucius was even bothering to ask after the position, considering its unavailability.

"Surely you see the advantages—" Lucius was saying, but he was cut off by the entry of Percy's actual assistant.

"Sorry to interrupt, sir. I thought you might want to see this." Luna's pale eyes were surprisingly lucid as she glared at Malfoy, Sr.

"Thank you, Luna," Percy said with a smile as he accepted the note from her outstretched hand. "Mr. Malfoy, I don't believe you've met my assistant, Miss Lovegood?" Smirking inwardly at the disgruntled noise that escaped the other man's mouth, he glanced at Luna's looping cursive.

_14 April— message from Oliver Wood_

_ I've found it! Can I buy you a drink later? Ring me at the station._

Feeling unexpectedly pleased by the prospect of investigating again with Oliver, Percy cleared his throat. Plus, there was the excuse it gave him to end his meeting early…

"Mr. Malfoy, something has come to my attention that I must attend to. I believe we were done here however—" He tutted irritably at Lucius began to protest, "You may make an additional appointment if you feel you must."

"I have never been thus treated in my-" Lucius' angry tone was blissfully cut off as the door slammed behind him. It creaked open a moment later, Luna's blonde head poking in the seam: "I suppose I'd better hold your calls, eh?"

He nodded his assent, feeling ridiculous as a light blush arose on his face—the curse of being a redhead baring its wretched head again.

Luna's eyes twinkled as she smiled, "I quite like Mr. Oliver Wood, you know. His aura is lovely." With that said, she stepped back into the outer office, closing the door softly.

Percy sputtered in shock—what did _that_ have to do with a murder investigation? _Ahem_, perhaps it would be best to finish the paperwork that he had neglected throughout the day. Oliver could wait, couldn't he? It wasn't as if they had made any commitments…

Well, there was nothing to be done but call him back and reschedule, Percy decided. Yes, good plan indeed.

He gulped, nervous for some peculiar reason. Must have been something he ate.

* * *

Oliver glanced at his phone in surprise, nearly dropping his pen at the disturbance. One possible reason for its sudden ringing set his heart beating faster than normal and he stared at it without blinking.

_Brring—bring—bring—_

With a clumsy lunge, he tore it off its cradle: "Hello?" he breathed into the mouthpiece.

'Oliver?' a strained voice asked nervously.

"Percy! Got my message, I see. Right reliable lass that girl is." Oliver grinned as he heard Percy clear his throat.

'Ah… y-yes. Luna is rather reliable, I suppose.'

"A good girl," Oliver repeated. "So are you free then? Tonight?"

'Well, you see-'

"Splendid!" Oliver cut in with a chuckle. "Meet you at 8. Blakely's, yeah?"

'Oliver, I don't think—'

"See you then, Perce. Ta."

Oliver replaced the phone with a smug smile. Never let it be said that Oliver Wood didn't get his man. _Ahem_, be warned ye evildoers! Oliver Wood (Percy Weasley in tow) was on the case!

* * *

On his way to dinner, Percy tried in vain to cool the flush that had arisen quite stubbornly in his face. The flush was so persistent, in fact, that even when Percy attempted to distract himself with thoughts of investigating with Oliver, it deepened dramatically. He was ill, that was all there was to it.

Blakely's, thankfully, was a rather dim pub, and Percy felt moderately secure in the fact that his sickness wouldn't be perceived unless it worsened over dinner. Gods, he hoped it wouldn't.

The pub was, indeed, very dim as he entered, and Percy squinted in the shadowed door to find his companion. A corner booth held the brunet, and Percy swallowed nervously before making his way over in firm strides.

"Oliver," he offered as a greeting.

"Percy! C'mon, sit down- I can't wait to tell you!"

Sitting primly, Percy blinked when a pint of ale was thrust unceremoniously toward him.

"Hope you like it pale," Oliver remarked with an easy smile, "and I ordered us some fish and chips. Now sit back like a good man and listen up."

Oliver's trip to the Ministry was shared with barely contained glee. His search through the Ministry Library had reaped a reward in the form of an entry on S. Snape's serum, the copy of which he handed over to Percy with an air of importance.

Thanking him, Percy poured over the pages, making amazed utterances periodically which had Oliver attempting to read over his shoulder what the fuss was about.

"This is astounding," Percy finally said, sitting back and taking a swig of ale. "This Snape person is simply brilliant—I can't believe that I've never heard of him."

"Wasn't his grant denied?"

"Yes, but-" Percy leaned forward in his chair, eager to share of his knowledge. "Our department isn't so cut-and-dry as others, you see. Even though Snape was denied in this instance, there's enough information here to indicate that it wasn't your typical cold refusal."

"Meaning?"

"Sometimes if a theory is so unique or has the capacity to be very profitable, we assign a task force to the project to supervise. If the Ministry is going to invest, you see, we like to know what we're getting into, and it's often the most ingenious theories that are the most volatile."

"So what you mean to say is that-"

"Fudge was familiar with Snape's theory not just because he read the grant petition…"

"He supervised the research," Oliver finished.

"Or at least he read the reports of the people who did," Percy agreed.

"So why have a meeting with 'R' after denying the request if he knew it was good?"

"We'd need to read the supervising reports to be sure—it said the grant was denied because it was open to abuse?"

"Right," Oliver replied, dragging a hand across his brow, suddenly very tired.

"So maybe that wasn't as much a problem for Fudge and 'R' as it was for the Department itself."

"Great," Oliver groaned, "political intrigue. Just what I need."


	8. Chapter 8

Author's Note: Here it is, finally: chapter 8! Before continuing on, please know that I've revised chapter 7 (added an extra 500 words or so at the end) and made some minor edits to other previous chapters. You might want to review those before tackling chapter 8. Other than that: enjoy and let me know what you think!

* * *

The next day found Oliver Wood using his tenuous Ministry connections to get to the bottom of the mystery Percy had unearthed the night before.

"You can't keep doing this to me, 'Ol."

"Last time, I swear!"

"…If I had a quid for every time I was fed that line."

"Angie, c'mon—just this once," Oliver whined with all the petulancy of a little boy denied a treat.

Angelina Johnson eyed his wobbling lip dubiously. "Last time," she emphasized, before handing over a think file.

"You're a good egg," Oliver replied with a grin. He hadn't known how useful an ex-girlfriend working in the Internal Affairs office would be!

"Severus Snape," she recited irritably, "he was a candidate for Ministry sponsorship until a few months back. Says his latest formula was too complex to fund—susceptible to abuse, needed a boatload of money to pull off, you know the drill."

"Got an address?"

"An old one for a lab—I'm sure he's cleared out by now."

"Beats the hell out of nothing," Oliver returned with a smirk and she snorted, reciting the address.

He nodded, flipping through the file with a frown at the tiny print.

Tight, looping writing that seemed to belong to Snape himself petitioning to the Ministry to apply funding, only to be refused in the red marked pages that followed subsequently.

Some of the oldest pages were notes from Snape's supervisor within the Ministry, complaining in bureaucratic terms of how difficult Snape was proving to work with: 'beligerent,' 'controlling,' 'suspicious,' and 'generally a pain' were the consensus of feeling. The bottom of the page concluded with: 'perhaps would be best to cut ties.'

"A real charmer, wasn't he?" Oliver remarked with a started laugh—Snape must have been truly awful to have placid Ministry workers in such a huff!

Angelina grunted in agreement. "I only ran across him once, but it was enough that I never wanted to again."

"You too? Did _anyone_ like him, Angie?"

She raised a brow in disbelief.

"Ok," he admitted sheepishly, "poor choice of words. Did anyone get along with him?"

"You know," Angelina murmured, tapping her chin thoughtfully, "there was a guy that could stand an entire conversation with Snape without wanting to rip him a new one. Bloody saint, he is—they weren't friends, but it's worth a try. See about a Remus Lupin down in Patents and Processes."

* * *

Percy spent the next day rummaging through the remainder of Fudge's files. The man had been less than ideally organized, and had allowed his inbox of pending material to grow exponentially in the days before his death. Percy thought with a touch of resentment that Fudge's job would have been his even without his superior's untimely demise—clearly Fudge had been less than concerned with completing his work.

He was three files away from seeing the bottom of the tray when he found a sheaf of paper clipped together and topped with a note marked:

_Mtg. w/ R.  
Neg. for Sn. Serum  
Possib. B-O  
See Flint_

Percy frowned at the reference to the mysterious 'R' and Snape Serum. Flipping through the pages briefly, he started as a peculiar note in red caught his eye.

_Flint thinks that the Serum is viable, though it requires an enormous amount of funding. He mentioned that an outside source might be interested in buying the formula. Snape doesn't like the idea._

Glancing at the date at the top of the page, Percy noted that the note was written about a month and a half prior to Fudge's death. He backtracked through the file until he found a handwritten note from Flint, postmarked around the same time.

_2 March:_

_ Fudge—_

_I have a possible buyer for what we discussed. He and I go back a long ways. Can I give him the green light to contact you? He'll be discreet. Riddle has some ideas for how to truly harness the serum…But I'll let him fill you in if it comes to that._

_-Flint_

Percy clutched the papers to his chest tightly and glanced around his empty office, suddenly afraid of being caught. The room was barren, as expected, but Percy couldn't quite calm the heart thumping quickly in his chest. He scrambled for the phone.

"_Yes, Mr. Weasley?"_

"Luna," Percy panted into the receiver, "please get Officer Wood on the line. As soon as you can."

"_Will do," _she assured him.

Setting the receiver down with a bang, he stared blankly at the small stack of paper. Why had Fudge just left this lying around? Percy supposed he must have shoved it under the stack and forgotten about it (_or been interrupted and forced to hide it_, Percy's mind supplied morbidly).

He jumped as the phone rang, breaking up the ghostly silence of his office.

"Y-yes," he stuttered nervously, trying to catch his breath.

"_Officer Wood for you on the line- hold on a tic," _Luna said with her dreamy air and Percy heard a click as the line switched over.

"_Percy? What's going on?"_

"Oliver," he breathed out in sharp relief, feeling out of sorts. "I've found something that you should see."

"_What is it? You sound ghastly-"_

"It's about Fudge and some man called Riddle. Fudge and some bloke—Flint—were aiming to sell the Snape Serum to Riddle under the table after denying the grant."

"_Blimey,_" Oliver replied in amazement.

"That's isn't all." Percy gulped, wiping his clammy palms on his trousers. "The way they talk about Riddle—he had plans for the Serum that don't seem to reflect Snape's intentions as a means of administering medication."

"_Meaning what? You've got to spell it out for me, Percy."_

"Oliver," Percy managed to choke out, "Snape's research is brilliant, but the Ministry report was right. It's extremely susceptible to abuse. The injected time-release microbeads can be used for administering medicines, but if you substituted in something like—say cyanide or another poison—it would be almost impossible to detect until…"

"_I don't understand—how is that worse than just giving someone the poison full-stop? Seems like a lot of unnecessary work if you ask me."_

"It's complicated," Percy supplied, wiping the nervous sweat beginning to pool at his brow. "Think of it this way: A killer gives his victim poison; the victim dies. The police investigate and _voila!_ Due to the sudden nature of the death, the police tend to recognize the incident as murder and go about trying to catch the killer. Do you follow?"

"_I'm work with the police, Percy, of course I follow,_" Oliver said with exasperation.

"Just checking," Percy retorted, glaring at his desk in place of the mocking brunet. "Now if the killer is more subtle and in the position to do so, he'll slowly poison the victim on several different occasions, building up the toxin so that it resembles a degenerative illness. Then when the victim finally dies, the immediate verdict is not murder, but disease. You see?"

"_Yes, but if the victim was healthy before…"_

"Exactly. And if an autopsy is called for, the toxin can usually be located and the police would then begin to investigate the possibility of a murder having taken place, being particularly suspicious of those persons with continual access to the victim like the killer had. But these injected microbeads," Percy noted with terror, "work through time-release. All the killer has to do is inject enough microbeads _once_ and the toxin is released gradually in such a way to eventually kill."

"_And the killer is less likely to be implicated,"_ Oliver finished. _"I see the fuss now."_

"It would be extremely difficult to trace," Percy admitted, "Almost impossible I should say."

"_And you think that Riddle had this use in mind?"_

"I-I don't know," Percy whispered. "But when I think about the way Fudge died, how awful he looked, and how underhanded this deal seemed to be… it seems best to be prepared for the worst."


End file.
